


through gates ivory and horn

by mannelig



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern Thedas, ain't even sorry, copious knitting, like half of those ships are background, love in the time of melodrama, yeah there are two hawkes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mannelig/pseuds/mannelig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all fairness, none of them had been expecting an emergency text from "the Dark Wolf of Denerim" to lead them to Warden Cousland. Melan, personally, had suspected an ambush. Probably bandits, maybe Templars, definitely not anybody looking to have tea with them. Instead, he'd gotten, well.</p>
<p>He'd gotten Woofles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through gates ivory and horn

 

 

 

    In all fairness, none of them had been expecting an emergency text from "the Dark Wolf of Denerim" to lead them to Warden Cousland. Melan, personally, had suspected an ambush. Probably bandits, maybe Templars, definitely not anybody looking to have tea with them. Instead, he'd gotten, well.  
  
    He'd gotten Woofles.  


  
    "Leliana!" shouted the Dark Wolf immediately upon the party's arrival at Haven, refugees in tow. Leliana, who was waiting at the gate, did not throw herself at him, but it was a near thing, and he scooped her up in a bear hug regardless. She drummed up a smile and kissed his cheeks in a sisterly fashion, and he kissed her forehead in return. "How've you been?" he asked, setting her on the ground.  
  
    "I've been.. better," Leliana admitted, so quietly that Melan heard it by chance alone. "Where have you been? We searched everywhere for you!"  
  
    "I went underground for a bit," said the Dark Wolf, shrugging a massive shoulder.  
  
    "Sorry," interrupted Melan, who was tired and sore and now very confused, "you know each other?"  
  
    They both turned and looked at him, blankly, before Leliana glanced back up at her friend and understood. "This is Warden Cousland," she explained. "He struck the killing blow on the Archdemon."  
  
    The enormous man at her side didn't flinch, but he looked like he'd wanted to. "By _luck_ ," he said, "anyway, you and the others did most of the work."  
  
    Melan stared. There was a faint rushing in his ears. "I hit you with a pitchfork," he said, a bit incredulous, because he had. It'd been a kneejerk response. He'd kind of assumed that the big burly man with a scruffy beard and scruffier tactical gear had been a bandit. Given the code name, he hadn't really let go of that idea until this very moment.  
  
    "Yeah," the man - _Cousland_ \- agreed, as if getting hit by pitchforks was an everyday thing.  
  
  
    And that seemed to be that for a while. Melan was busy playing fetch and recruiting random people off the street and getting traumatized by Alexius and ignoring half the things that came out of Cullen's mouth, which is probably why he noticed the scarf in the first place.  
  
    It was a dark, practical blue, but it had odd patches of canary yellow and olive green mixed in, and it stood out starkly against the grey of Cassandra's camouflage. He supposed that as the person who started this whole Inquisition thing she could probably dress however she wanted, but the new accessory and the baffled, dazed sort of look on her face was a little worrying.  
  
    "Are you all right?" he asked quietly as the others bickered on the other side of the war table.  
  
    "Hm? Oh, yes," she said, snapping back to awareness, then immediately launched herself into the middle of the argument.  
  
    After that, however, Melan started seeing knitted clothing turn up everywhere. Most of it was sweaters and hats, all of them lumpy and ugly but apparently very cozy. They were in a variety of colors, with some very unfortunate combinations in some of them. Finally, he gave in and asked about the source.  
  
    "Warden Cousland made them!" said a beaming refugee, her face aglow with delight and the rest of her aglow with clashing colors of yarn. "He started as soon as he got here."  
  
    "Where does he get the yarn?" Melan wondered, but this was apparently a mystery to everyone, so he resigned himself to actually _talking_ to Cousland.  
  
    As it turned out, the Warden was not anywhere he expected, which is to say, he wasn't anywhere that was warm. For some reason, instead of wedging himself into one of the actual buildings, Cousland had strung up a dingy little tent by the wall. If Melan was being honest, calling it a tent was too generous. It was a piece of canvas strung between the wall and the ground. There wasn't any kind of flooring except for the hard packed earth, and there wasn't even a cot, just a sleeping bag.  
  
    "You know," Melan said, finding himself a little concerned, "I kind of doubt that does much against the cold."  
  
    Cousland looked up from knitting something an ungodly shade of salmon and grinned at him. "You might be surprised."  
  
    "No, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't. Coming out and finding a Warden popsicle some morning would not, in fact, come as a shock. You don't - it doesn't even block the wind, please tell me you aren't actually sleeping here."  
  
    "I am, actually."  
  
    "How are you alive," Melan asked, because he genuinely wanted to know, and Cousland just laughed.  
  
    He did at least have a fire going, and there were a few camp chairs leaning against the wall, one of which he dragged over, asking, "How can I help you, Melan?"  
  
    Putting aside the jarring use of his first name, which was still weird to hear strangers use, Melan cautiously perched on the chair. "I just wanted to know the story behind the knitting," he admitted. "And why Cassandra looked like she'd been run over by a truck the other day."  
  
    "Oh," said Cousland, the knitting needles looking oddly delicate in his hands, "I did kind of ambush her with the scarf. She looked cold, though?"  
  
    Melan gave him a flat look.  
  
  
    After that it became a sort of ritual to go over to Cousland's sad looking little tent and attempt to convince him to at least move into something with walls. It was in vain, especially on the days where Melan arrived to find a small crowd already there. Usually, Cousland was telling some kind of story, needles clicking steadily as he talked. Sometimes, he was also giving lessons to anyone who was bored or just in need of a distraction.  
  
    "Herald Melan!" he called teasingly whenever he noticed the rogue's presence. "Here to learn knitting?"  
  
    "And put you out of business?" Melan might respond. "Never."  
  
    On bad days, he wouldn't say anything, and Cousland would either sit him down by the fire and continue talking, or else he would gently send everyone else off and let Melan sit quietly for a while. More often than not, though, he would just keep talking.  
  
    "I was working on a hat for the Archdemon," Cousland said blithely one afternoon, as if that was something people just did. "I wasn't sure how big to make it, so I just started with a regular size hat and worked up from there."  
  
    Like a lot of the things that came out of his mouth, this one silenced the small crowd gathered round him. Faces scrunched up, either in uncertainty about Cousland's honesty or in disbelief that he'd just said that. No one seemed to have the courage to prompt him to continue.  
  
    " _Why?_ " Melan asked finally, unable to bear it any longer.  
  
    Apparently unaware of the minor chaos he was causing, the Warden replied easily, "It seemed appropriate, at the time. Sort of a gallows humor thing, I think. It had big flowers on it."  
  
    Melan pinched the bridge of his nose and silently asked the gods for strength. "So - dare I ask - what happened to it?"  
  
    "Well," said Cousland with a wistful sigh, "my friends threw it in the lake on our way back from the Circle. I'd run out of yarn by then anyway, though."  
  
  
  
    There were a few things about Cousland that, as it turned out, were important things to never forget.  
  
    The first was that he was extremely physically affectionate. He seemed to crave it, even if it was something as simple as a handshake, though he was always respectful of boundaries. All of Haven soon learned that if a hug was needed, Cousland's arms were always open. Melan didn't personally take the Warden up on it, because it seemed kind of strange, but it very quickly stopped being surprising to come across Cousland engaged in a bear hug of epic proportions.  
  
    The second was that Cousland was horrifically nosy.  
  
    "Do you know everyone already?" Melan asked after the fourth or fifth time Cousland cordially greeted and asked detailed questions about someone that he'd never seen before in his life.  
  
    "Not yet," Cousland said, and flashed a smile his way. "Feel like sharing your life story yet?"  
  
    "Absolutely not."  
  
    The third, and Melan wasn't sure if this was the worst of the three or not, was that Cousland was opinionated.  
  
    Very, _very_ opinionated.  
  
    But not, as it turned out, in the way that Melan had come to expect from most shemlen.  
  
    Cousland was loudly and vehemently on the side of mages, and though some of his remarks didn't go over too well, mostly because he had no filter, he argued passionately and for long enough that a lot of people gave up trying to get a word in edgewise. Melan suspected that the Wardens' victory over Loghain at Denerim owed a lot to this tactic.  
  
    Another thing, which Melan discovered mostly by accident and entirely by eavesdropping, was that Haven's favorite Warden was also very pro-elf(and dwarf. And qunari. And golem.) and had been going round quashing the many anti-elf sentiments going around. Or trying, at least. No matter his apparent rate of success, the sentiment would always be there on some level.  
  
    Melan dithered over whether or not to confront Cousland about it, but unfortunately, he didn't have time, because shortly after this discovery, Corypheus showed up.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
    "Over here!"  
  
    Lifting his head from the snowdrift took monumental effort, but it was almost worth it purely for the sight of Cousland speeding towards him on fucking skis.  
  
    "Where did you even get those," he tried to ask when the Warden neared him, but it came out more as a tired grunt. Cousland fell gracelessly to one knee in the snow and started checking his vitals, barking out instructions to someone arriving on a bright pink snowboard.  
  
    "Why are you judging me even when you're a mess?" he asked, voice sharp with worry. Melan snorted at him and passed out.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
    Skyhold was. Well. It was a thing. An old, crumbling, snow-covered thing.  
  
    "Easy, Woofles," Varric murmured when they arrived, because Cousland had turned to Solas with bristling eyebrows. He had a rant about fortification and radars all over his face and was very clearly trying to behave. Melan didn't laugh, but that was mostly because he was too tired.  
  
    "Please tell me it has running water," someone said plaintively.  
  
    It did not.  
  
  
    Skyhold was disorienting at first, especially because you had to be careful of falling bits of ancient parapet, and no one wanted to stay in the same place for very long, which Melan supposed was fair enough, but made finding anybody kind of tricky. Eventually, though, he discovered Cousland standing up on the battlements, and slowly made his way up the endless stairs, mindful of the package he was carrying.  
  
    "Cousland," he called from a safe distance, because there were some people you Did Not startle. To his knowledge, Cousland had never pulled a weapon on anyone when startled, but he'd fought in the Blight, and no one had escaped unscathed from that. Besides, Cousland had a big gun on his hip and the special darkspawn sword on his back glittered maliciously even from inside its sheath. Melan was not interested in taking any chances.  
  
    "Hey," said the Warden without turning away from the spotting scope he was peering through. The tripod, apparently too short for comfortable use, was stacked on top of some rubble that had been dragged over from who knows where. After a moment, Cousland made a note on the tiny pad of paper in his hand, then pocketed it and turned to face him, smiling. "Need something?"  
  
    Feeling self conscious, Melan shrugged. "Not really?" he said, then held the package out.  
  
    Cousland took it curiously, unwrapped it, and stopped dead, eyebrows climbing incredulously upwards.  
  
    "Please set it up in the courtyard and not up here," said Melan.  
  
    Still staring at the tent in his hands, Cousland started to laugh.  
  
  
    Two weeks later, after a particularly harrowing and really ridiculously cold series of missions, Melan staggered into his bedroom and found a package sitting on the bed.  
  
    It contained the most hideous sweater he'd ever seen in his life. The yarn was a hash of colors, one of which was a bright orange that should never be worn by anybody, and it had a lopsided picture of the Inquisition's symbol on it. There were also stars. Probably. It was hard to tell.  
  
    Melan put it on a little cautiously, and immediately discovered that it was a great deal warmer than the thin pajamas he'd been issued way back when. The sweater was also dangerously close to being large enough to double as a blanket.  
  
    If he were only color blind, it'd be perfect.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
    Cooper Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was incredibly intimidating. Her cousin, Tamsen, was less so, at least until you met her steely eyes and noticed the biceps under her cozy mage robes. Melan wasn't really sure how to feel about them appearing so suddenly, though it made Varric happy enough.  
  
    What was more interesting was coming across Cousland quietly but earnestly asking Cooper questions about Anders.  
  
    "Have you heard from him recently?" he asked, eyes large and worried. "Is he all right?"  
  
    Cooper, who apparently had had some prior warning about him, softened just a little bit. "About as well as can be expected," she said. "I can try to send him a message, if you want."  
  
    "Yes, please," Cousland said warmly. "I wish- I wish I could've been there, to help-"  
  
    It was at this point they both paused and looked directly at the corner of wall Melan was hiding behind. Knowing it would be better for everybody, he stuck his head out a little further and waved. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, "didn't want to interrupt."  
  
    Though Hawke didn't relax at all, eyeing him with suspicion, the the tension rolled off of Cousland like it had never been there in the first place, and he grinned. "And you call me nosy."  
  
    "Because you are," Melan confirmed, stepping fully out from behind the wall. "I didn't know you knew Anders."  
  
    "I recruited him into the Wardens, actually."  
  
    "Of course you did," said the Inquisitor, because really, he shouldn't have expected anything else.  
  
  
  
    Much later, after hearing the story of how Tamsen and Cooper met entirely by accident and then proceeded to convince the entirety of Kirkwall that they were the same person through clever application of face paint and liberal use of bald-faced lying, and after the shitshow at Adamant, and after Tamsen stayed behind in the Fade, going so far as to use her magic to push them out, and after learning from Varric's face the truth of _that_ relationship, only then did Melan think to ask Cousland a question.  
  
    As usual, he found his quarry up on the battlements, for once bundled up properly against the cold, face still in the flickering light of the cheap battery-operated lantern strapped to the leg of his chair.  
  
    "Can I ask you something?" Melan asked, sitting on the other chair and wrapping his arms around himself.  
  
    "Sure," Cousland said, shifting a little to show he was listening.  
  
    Frowning, Melan said, slowly, "Why don't you hear the Calling?"  
  
    This caught Cousland off guard, and the Inquisitor wondered what he'd been expecting. "Oh," was the slightly baffled reply. "I do. I just..." A shrug. "I block it out, is all."  
  
    Melan couldn't quite keep the skepticism off his face. By all accounts, the Calling was unbearable. "How?"  
  
    Finally, Cousland turned to look at him, the shadows playing oddly on his face, and after a long moment, he admitted with surprising reluctance, "It's easier to ignore than everything else in my head."  
  
    How do you even respond to that?  
  
    Before he could even think of a response, however, Cousland noticed him shivering. "Shit- Melan! Go back inside, it's freezing out here!" He immediately tugged off his heavy, well-worn coat and wrapped Melan up in it.  
  
    The coat was, Melan was sure, about half his own weight, and smelled a little too much like travel, but it was warm and surprisingly soft. "Is this lined with baby ducks?" he asked. "Kittens, maybe?" He made a show of checking, because he still wasn't sure what to do with the conversation and humor seemed like the best idea.  
  
    Huffing a laugh, Cousland sat back down. "Sort of," he said, sheepishly, right as Melan discovered that there was yarn tucked into the lining of the coat.  
  
    "You're kidding me," he said. "Okay, no, I need you to explain the yarn thing. Where are you getting it?" All things considered, Melan didn't feel that this question warranted quite that level of surprised eyebrow currently being directed towards him.  
  
    "I have it shipped in," he said. "For a while I was just carrying skeins around, but I've been sending to my contacts that Leliana and Amell set up for me. Don't worry, I've only been using my personal money."  
  
    "And the coat?" Melan asked, relishing the opportunity to do the questioning for once.  
  
    Cousland grinned lopsidedly. "Tailored to fit over tactical gear and hold pretty much anything in the lining. Saved my hide more than once in the Deep Roads during the Blight, let me tell you. Want one? You can join me in giving poor Josephine and Leliana fashion-related heart attacks."  
  
    "Tempting." But Melan's brain had caught up, and he did some hasty calculations in his head that were probably incredibly off. The point was the same, though, and Leliana had gotten that funny look on her face last time it came up... "Hang on - personal money? ...You wouldn't be the one who keeps making monthly anonymous donations to the Inquisition, would you?"  
  
    His companion stared at him. "How in hell did you make that jump?" At Melan's pointed look, he added, looking a little flustered, "Well, yeah."  
  
    It had been a shot in the dark, honestly, but Melan felt warmed by the confirmation, and grinned. "You're getting predictable, Cousland."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I kind of threw you into this head first, so here are a few helpful notes.
> 
> Melan and Cooper and Kallian(who will appear next chapter) are from my sibling's games. Cousland, Tamsen, and Amell(also appearing next chapter) are from mine.
> 
> ANYWAY much like my other DA fic, this is an au where pretty much everything is the same except it's all modern. Cell phones and social media are absolutely a thing, as is a different kind of armor. Guns work fine against darkspawn, but swords work better, so all the Wardens have special blades for that purpose(even the mages, though theirs are usually just knives). Mages generally use wands and batons etc.
> 
> In this scenario, we have four Wardens - Cousland, Kallian, Amell, Alistair. There'll be more about them in the next chapter, so I'll spare you.
> 
> If you want more information, feel free to ask!


End file.
